Regrettably, Screwed Over Badly
by northerlywind
Summary: Tina hasn't spoken to Artie in years, has just signed her divorce papers with Mike, and is just barely hanging onto her job. That's when, of all times, tragedy strikes. And she is definitely Not Prepared. Rated T for occasional strong language.
1. So this is how it ends

**A/N: **Okay, I know by now that I can't make any sort of fanfic-related promises. Cue glance at three unfinished fics. Anyway, this time I've really wrote out the first three or four chapters beforehand and I _think_ this could be a working strategy. Maybe. I know I'm crazy to write about this theme again (you'll realize once you read on), but please know I am not _entirely_ insane. Cough.

_Sort of _inspiration but really I just want to plug awesome stuff: movie - The Greatest; book - The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman; glee fanfic - Just Like Last Tuesday, Except With Zombies by angel-dawes.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own anything Glee.

* * *

"Tina." She turns to see Mike Chang hurrying toward her. She turns around and he gives her a quick peck on the cheek, which she shies away from. If he notices, he doesn't say anything. She tries to subtly glance at her wristwatch - _15 minutes late_ - but he sees her doing it and gives her an apologetic smile.

"Traffic", he says, quick to make an excuse, and it's getting tiresome.

Tina smiles, a little thinly, and nods, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Traffic? The same traffic she had to get through even though the apartment is a full hour away (and she thoroughly blames him, because he picked the stupid place)? _She_ came on time, didn't she?

He takes a seat and she copies him, sitting on the identical chair beside his. A man smiles at them and asks if they're ready.

They exchange a glance and say, maybe give us a minute.

* * *

The same thing happens three months later except they're sitting in a lawyer's office instead of a fancy restaurant. Tina's teeth are slightly clenched, partially out of nervousness (or, dare she say it, anticipation) but mostly out of pure annoyance. He really couldn't have come on time?

She glances pointedly at her watch a second time, but he doesn't notice, and she grinds her teeth a little at this. Give it to him to be irritatingly observant in some areas but idiotically oblivious in others. She pulls in her chair a bit and waits.

He pushes the papers over to her, and she signs her long motherfucker of a name (which is a goddamn curse, especially in the grocery store, when the line is a mile long and everyone is humming and hawing while they wait for her to finish). She wonders, briefly, if she should change it, as always, but, as always, decides against it. She puts down the pen and flips the page, the motion causing the pen (which had been resting, barely, on the paper's edge) to roll off the floor (and thankfully land on the rug, not on the hardwood, which she is _sure_ is some absolutely ridiculous extinct wood that costs millions).

Tina blushes (bad habit) and ducks down to retrieve it before she makes a fool of herself. But she thinks she still has some foolishness left to spend in the day's quota. After all, Mike was the one late. She clears her throat and signs some more (definitely feeling that nice awkward silence), before finally flipping the last page back and pushing the papers forward.

She leans back in her chair, trying to inaudibly release a sigh and turns to see Mike giving her a small smile. She smiles back, sort of, but she is lost in her thoughts because she has just made two earth-shattering (okay, not) realizations.

One: this stupid thing is _finally over._

Two: she has wasted _years of her life_ because of this.

And the second makes her want to bolt from the room at the earliest possible moment.


	2. Cord phones and bad habits

**A/N: **Sorry these are so short! I didn't realize when I was typing them up. Anyway, I think the whole thing will be long, so forgive me at the moment.

* * *

Tina picks up the phone, toying with the cord (and yes, she does still have those old kinds, because no matter what people say, these still get better reception). She puts it down. Picks it up again. Puts it down. Sighs and gets up because everything is making her really hungry. She makes a bread and bread sandwich (lettuce - is brown and really soggy; tomatoes - there's been some shortage and they're really expensive now; ham - she's a vegetarian now, or at least when she thinks she's kind of tipping the scales; mayo - she looks at the best before date and wrinkles her nose).

As her teeth dig through the rubbery rye bread she contemplates. Contemplates life. Then she realizes what the fuck she's doing and stops. She dumps the crust into the trash can. Her stomach feels queasy, and she doesn't think it's the one-day-after-expiration bread (she took a chance). Her nails click as she holds onto the laminate (because, really, who can afford granite or marble? only in the movies, baby). She needs to Get Ahold of Herself. Tina usually has this bad meditation technique someone from Glee (she can't remember whom for the life of her) sent her by email once.

But it involves sitting on the floor, and she hasn't vacuumed in _ages_.

* * *

She climbs onto her small armchair (wondering why an armoire is called an _arm_oire, always), testing to see if she can do the thing here. Tina balances her knees on the sides. Nearly falling over, she decides pants would definitely be a better option. As opposed to skirts, she means. Not no pants. Though that might be preferable (if highly, highly, highly inappropriate, even alone in her apartment). She walks into her bedroom to change into a pair of lint-speckled yoga pants when a phone ring causes her to bump her head on the dresser. Swearing, she grabs the stupid pants and runs to the phone (there's only one in the house).

She sort of falls into the swivel chair and picks up the phone (she loves that; it makes her feel like some hot-shot CEO). The person on the other end identifies herself and Tina shudders, slightly. But she responds politely and allows her to continue. She nods (really bad habit), and says okay, yeah, okay, oh, as the woman continues. Partway through, she loses consciousness of the words on both sides but in the end she manages to say, yes, of course I'll go to his funeral.


	3. Infinite irritation

"Mike", Tina says sharply into the phone. He sounds tired and it's 11 AM. "Is this a bad time?" She picks at her nails, impatient. If he says yes, actually, she's going to... she's not sure what she's going to do, but she's _going _to be very pissed off.

"Whu- yeah? Tina?"

Who else? She knows he has caller ID but still pretends not to know who it is when he picks up (partly so people don't know he's ignoring them, but mostly because he's an asshole - okay, not really. she feels bad for thinking it).

She realizes she kind of hasn't said anything, so she says yeah. She manages to refrain from tacking on a _who the hell do you think, Mike Chang_.

"What's wrong? Is everything with the lawyer okay?" She grinds her teeth in frustration, but quietly. It's always like this, him jumping to conclusions, assuming. It used to be cute (can I get you a glass of water, I turned on the TV because I know you like this show, the chicken is on the counter to thaw), but now it is just plain fucking irritating.

"Nothing, everything is fine", she replies, sharply, again. She's not exactly lying. She kind of softens, and needs to take a big breath to continue (breathing exercises - another component of the aforementioned email), because she knows her voice is bordering on becoming shaky. And once Tina hears herself being shaky, she breaks down. It's crazy, she knows. But she's crazy (and fully aware of that fact, thank you very much).

"Listen, Mike" Of course he's listening. She berates herself, but he patiently, well, listens. She scratches at her badly done nail job. She barely keeps from biting her nails, usually, and the taste of polish is - _ugh_. Otherwise, she would not be wearing black cherry red. Or chinese mahogany red. Or whatever the stupid color is.

"I need you to do me a favor." She closes her eyes. Breathe in, breathe out. _Whooooosh. _

"Okay... sure." He sounds wary, and Tina is annoyed, but she grudgingly thinks he has reason for it.

She realizes her hand is floating toward her mouth and she quickly slams it down on the table, causing the metal to ring. The sound metaphorically slaps her, and she regains control.

"You know Artie, right...", she says, tentatively. Of course he does. But they usually don't mention him, well, ever. It was a sore spot in their relationship. Then again, there were a lot of sore spots. She spins a quarter (badly) on the table.

"Yeah. Artie Abrams?" He's waiting for her to say something like, guess what we're back together again so you can suck on that, asshole, but she doesn't. She swallows, takes deep breaths and steadies the hand holding the phone with her other one, so she won't hang up.

"He... he kind of..." She hears herself get a tad emotional and she pinches herself, really. She bites back an ouch and continues. Get it over with. One big rush. Speech problems of yore be damned.

Deep breath.

He waits for her, because he knows she will eventually spit it out (this patience is gratifying, if a little irritating, as everything involving Mike oft seems to be of late).

Deep breath.

"", she say in one crazy big rush and she knows he didn't catch it (he's a tad slow, not as slow as Finn was, but... all the same).

"Sorry?" At least he doesn't say _What?_ (an annoyance) again.

"Artie", she repeats, squeezing her eyes together (wondering why she actually cares to go, then wondering why she is such a selfish bitch to think she shouldn't). "He - I dunno. Something happened. And he. Um. Passed away. You know. Well you don't. Anyway." Deep breath. "There's this funeral thing." Deep breath. "AndIneedyoutocomewithme."

Tina really hopes he got that last part, because she's not sure she can handle saying it _again_. He seems to have gotten the gist of it (you, me... what's not to get). It will be plenty awkward, sure, but frankly, she has no one else (pathetic, she knows).

"Okay...", he replies slowly. "Um... sure, if you need me." The asshole (she feels bad for thinking it again) is probably drowning in the glory of it all. _If you need me_. Christ.

"Great." _Not great. _"Um, you know, wear black and everything. I'll uh - see you there I guess? Or do you want to drive there together?" _Say no, please say no, please say no._

"Of course. And sure, save up on gas and all that." DAMN IT. Urgh.

"Your car then?" Any gas spent will be on his bill, asshole (she feels bad again, but there's no other way to express her opinion of him at this point).

"Sure. I'll pick you up."

"Okay, bye." She rushes to put the phone down.

"Wait!" _What is it this time? "I still love you?" Please. _"When is it?"

"Huh?", she replies, quite unattractively.

"The - the funeral. When?"

"Oh. Um. The 17th? I think. Okaybye." She hangs up the phone before he can say anything else.


	4. Sarcasm is not appreciated here

**A/N: **I'm whipping these out rather quickly, but I'm pretty sure I can't get to a computer and publish more chapters until _next week. _So I hope you're satisfied with these four (short! gah!) chapters until later. Reviews are nice. Hint hint.

* * *

Tina is not good at this pressure thing. Her mouse moves to and fro, zigging and zagging as she clicks here and there... and all of that babble. Her boss hovers over her (which totally helps, she thinks sarcastically), and repeats "We have a deadline, Tina, and _we need to meet it_." She grinds her teeth but smiles and nods. Bastard. She can totally imagine him with an Indian accent, sitting behind the desk, being annoying, just like Figgins.

Except she needs to concentrate. Thankfully he goes to hound another unfavorable employee and she sort of relaxes but then tenses again at the sight of her computer. She plays around with the graphics a bit but can't get any inspiration. Tina subtly checks her personal email and sees she has received a forward. Glancing around (she is such a guilty person), she opens it and sees it's about the Event that she would prefer not to verbalize (internally or otherwise). She's a sort of anti-morbid person. Whatever the term is.

How did she get her email? Probably had it since high school. She starts to smile but then realizes the whole thing is a _tad_ stalkerish and she stops smiling.

She sense someone coming from behind and quickly switches out of the page. She awaits her punishment, but none is forthcoming. Her imagination. Damn it. She should really put a mirror on the wall. Under the pretense that she wants to see her reflection (hacking cough), but really to see if anyone approaches. She always has these sort of schemes but her cubicle is dreadfully bare. And gray. She hates it, but not her job. Tina hates her boss, she hates most of her co-workers (they're so... sophisticated, she guesses, and she's definitely not), she hates her quote unquote "office", she hates her squeaky, uncomfortable chair... But she sort of maybe kind of likes her job. She's artistically inclined (whatever the hell that means), and it suits her.

But she groans, grinds her teeth, quickly reads over the rest of the email, logs out of Yahoo (she should get GMail, she knows. but she's had the address since grade 6), and fiddles, moodily, on the cover page she's working on. The worst thing is, however hard she's going to work at it, she's not going to get any praise, and this isn't even for an _actual_ cover. Stupidly, it's a goddamn contest. For who gets to make the _real_ cover for their magazine.

One thing Tina knows: it's sure as hell not going to be _her_.

* * *

She brings up a text box idly, waits patiently for her plethora of fonts to load, and stares at her computer screen. Tina knows (because her mother told her _all the time_) that sitting in front of a bright electronic screen every day for hours on end is really bad. But she doesn't care. Instead she types in the first thing she thinks of and scrolls through the fonts to see which one would fit Artie Abrams.

She finally decides on Trajan Pro because it looks epic and powerful but then realizes it kind of looks like the type they use on gravestones. The thought chills her and she quickly deletes the text box before she starts thinking of ghosts.

That's because, no matter how many horror movies she can handle, she's still an absolute wimp, and will definitely sleep with all the lights on tonight.


End file.
